Nothing Box · Whisper


It has been quite a while since I wrote my real-time thoughts here. Good gracious, its back.

It’s the same old story week day afternoon here at the office. I am supposed to be working but here I am anyway, breaking the rules has been my best friend lately.

Anyways, you know that feeling of wanting to figure how the effin way you uncomfortably end up in a comfortable chair contemplating how unlucky, sad and irresponsible you are for the past year?


I am so done with quarter life crisis (this is a correction because last time I talked about life crisis, I wrote mid-life crisis and yes that was a mistake and no I’m not gonna die at forty).

But here I am again taking a sip of the old dilemma because of this gigantic situation I am burdened with as of the moment —  I feel a lot and I am bored.

But there’s a catch. Brilliant minds of this world said that human beings can only access 10% of their brains, and the rest are just lying there inside their box. But tadaa! Here’s boredom!

There’s a 0.1% possibility that boredom could let you take a peak on the remaining 90% of your brain. That still depends if you are lucky.

See. Boredom is a miracle. Boredom is badass. You don’t have to take any unknown small crystal pill to access all of your brain’s capacity and have that bright shiny day you dreamt of (Yup, I watched Limitless), you just have to embrace boredom. It’s not similar, but I just like to think it’s the same.

And so I’m bored.

Then I saw my wrists.

The thing about my wrists is that I have these gigantic greenish purpleish veins that are very bulgy and is like one paper thick near my epidermis. Tempting.

My wrist veins then entertained me. I could see how the blood flow to my hands would stop every time I took a hard grip on my wrist and when I loosen it, it feels like the inside bloods were rejoicing to reach the tips of my palms down to my fingers. It felt good it took me almost 4 hours just clutching my wrists.

The wrist thing was only the beginning. I went inside my nothing box and devoured myself on its nothingness. This time, it wasn’t nothing.

I think about the stranger who approached me and my friend to ask for money. He is on his mid 30s I guess and he sure is healthy and capable of sustaining himself and he doesn’t look homeless at all. But he asked for money. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry not because he doesn’t have fare for his ride home but I felt sorry because of the thought that, this man, he gave up.

I think about the couple I saw waiting for their turn to access the ATM machine. How they look at each other with overwhelming passion and how they swiftly reached for each other’s lips.

I think about the times when Friday was the most anticipated day of my life.

I think about when would be the day that I could just show off my boobs and don’t care at all. I mean, what is it about breasts and nipples? We all have that. Females have the extra size but its all just boobs why do we need to hide it or be insecure about how others have it the family size way and how others conveniently have it the sporty size way.

I think about how water tastes like water and how am I going to live without 500 milliliters of coffee a day. Coffee as a drug is an understatement for me. Having Coffee is more like a devotion I need to carry on every day, it is not because of the caffeine to keep me awake but because it’s 3 in the afternoon I need my coffee.

I think about how my pimples looked like my face and not the other way around. It’s a good day after the pimple breakout but I’m worried what if one day past pimples would just appear in your body as scars, more like tombstones of dead pimples, and it would just stay there forever until your dying day. We could have been a different kind of species. We could have evolved into something. And then there’s gonna be this one woman from  the west side of the world who purposely grow pimples to collect scars which they treat as maps to the promised place given by the gods in return for their good deeds and good pimples.

I think about what if we could control every strand of our hair just like we control every part of our body. It would be very helpful.

I think about what if each of us have our own unique laughter with its own unique frequencies, equivalent to our fingerprints and how would it be possible to use it to unlock our phones.

I think about randomly murdering someone. I ponder about what would I do to hide the body and cover my tracks or will I ever be able to kill a person with one stab only and would my force be enough to hit his organs to cause internal bleeding and bring him to his death. Will I be caught? Will I survive in jail?

I think about getting fancy dresses and pink lipsticks, mascara and all. I think about painting my face and matching clothes to shoes to hairstyle and wearing heels and flaunting it like it’s a normal thing to do because AMMALADY.

I think about the father of my dead friend. I think about his pain carrying his son in ashes . I think about the sadness he is carrying knowing that he will never gonna say his I love you and that how hard it took him to accept that his son died before him. I think about the moment he knew his son died and how loud his sobs were and how it aches him to accept it. I think about what he’s going through and I wish he could get through it.

I think about every sad song and where they came from and what they meant. I think about how they were written and to whom they were for. I think about all of the sadness in it.

I think about the good times spent with friends and school and sleepover and lazy days. I think about the stomach aches caused by laughter from friends who are a little bit too crazy. I think about the good talks in the long walks of windy afternoons and how lovely it is to be silly with people who doesn’t judge but laughs their butt out with you. I think about the lost laughter and how I longed to experience them again. I think about the faded smiles I have every time I remember the good times.

I think about how sad I am and how I can’t cry it out. I think about the good in pretending and the bad about being strong. I think about when to loosen the grip and let go of the rope and how loud will I be able to cry beside the bathroom door. I think about until when will I be able to get a hold onto it and to whom will I break down and sob my loneliness with.

I think about friends who betrayed me and I think a lot if they really betrayed me. I think about if I deserved to be betrayed or if I’m just not good enough for them to allow me to stay on their lives. I think about how happy they are now without me and how relieved their girlfriends are that I’m gone and would never come back. I think about the right decisions they have made and how I agreed to every bit but I also think about how on the world it hurts like this. I think about how I hated and loved them all at once. I think about all the plans we have and how those are never gonna happen. I think about missing them my entire life.

I think about every other stranger in the world and how some of them could ever relate to everything that I am thinking. I think about possible scenarios where they genuinely listen to my thoughts and just listen and be there for me. I think about who is that someone behind the blurry image, someone who would stay and would always be the person he said he is and will be.

I think about when will I stop asking and wanting more. I think when will I be able to have contentment and satisfaction and full happiness. I think about how would it feel to rejoice about having less but complete. I think about it a lot.

I think about him. I think about how he felt that night and how he feels today. I think about if he cry himself to sleep or does he think about me because I do, think about him. I think about his pain and how many times did he told himself to be brave and just move on and never look back. I think about his anger and how far will  it consume everything. I think about his kisses and how I won’t be able to own them again. I think about how he holds my hand and how he rubs his thumb to the back of my skin and how it felt to have someone. I think about how I loved him and how I’m gonna miss him and how would it hurt because I will never gonna be the same again. I think about the future and that one day when we are both healed and can be friends again.

I think about my heart and how unlucky I am to have it as big as it is and how small its cage is. I think about how incapable it is to function at its best.

I think about how I’m okay in general but something about everything keeps my mind a million miles away from being in the present and from being sane. In this moment I’m blank at best, melancholy at worst. I keep trying to bring myself back to my senses but I don’t feel like there’s any point. I am not happy. I am not that sad. I don’t know. Maybe its just the opposite of that. I’m okay. Always is.

I think about how there’s something about detachment and loneliness that can feel both bad and good at the same time.

It’s congruently cynic and amazing to have all of this inside me, and yet, to the outside world, I’m just a blank fixture in the room, a blank face with a hurricane of emotions, just typing some words pretending to work.

I am hurting, but I’m okay.

I’m okay.

So I ended it.

I let go of my wrists.


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